"You are not Nyx." There voice echoed and pulsed, a soft observation from Chaos.
"No you are something different... something.. new. Tell me, Maker of Nightmares, what are you called?" Chaos's voice was everywhere and nowhere all at once.
Is this the maw again? Gilded eyes flicker from their absent gaze just above his piano. Gaze sliding around his liar. The empty cages swaying. The drop by his feet shudders and recedes ever so slightly. Whispering as the silence lingers," ... I do not make Nightmares. I prey upon the fears that already exist. Thus my nightmares are born, fully formed, sprung from the minds of mortals. Whom are you- to be so far into the shadows as to see me?" The energy is familiar but vastly foreign all at once. The taste of possibility on his tongue, as well as the heavy burden of a failure that has not happened.
















